CHAPTER VIII
THE OTHER CAMP
That compact, as Miles stood waiting before the library fire, seemed reward enough, not only for their lesser troubles of last night, but for whatever might come, of greater. The words, the clasp of hands, the whole twilight scene, still occupied his thoughts so busily that when the latch clicked and Tony entered, he had formed no plan for the expected interview.
“Morning,” called the sailor. Fresh and hearty as though he had slept all night, he wore somehow a thoughtful aspect; and his first movement was toward the window, where he paused to study the chessmen. They stood as Richard Bissant had left them, but now, touched by winter sunshine, formed a little plot of brightness, thick-set, like white and scarlet hyacinths.
“He’d have won that time.” Tony shook his head, musing. “Yes, if—A losing game we play, though, in this world, isn’t it?” Again he shook his head, adding inconsequently, “One point, Miles: be happy while you’re young.”
His left side brushed a corner of the bookshelf. He winced, and nursed his arm, which moved clumsily.
“Lame there,” he explained, without turning. “I stumbled last night, and hit her a clip.”
“On our friend’s knife?” suggested Miles.
Tony whipped about with a droll face of consternation.
“That fool been blabbing already?” he cried. “He can’t be out of bed yet!”